


Once and Future

by dustbottle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, But the ending is happy I swear it!, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, The Return of the King - Freeform, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 04:38:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5483744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbottle/pseuds/dustbottle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur dies at the Battle of Camlann. Merlin waits for his return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once and Future

**Author's Note:**

> Characters not mine, except the OC's of course. The ending of Merlin has ruined Christmas long enough.

**“** **Arthur is not just a king. He is the Once and Future King. Take heart, for when Albion's need is greatest** _,_ **Arthur will rise again.”**

_United Kingdom, 1920’s_

When you’d lived as long as he had, the years going by had little more impact than the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. Time flew by, years turning into decades, into centuries, into millennia. Life roared around him, passed him by, leaving no trace. Meaningless people came and went, were born and died in the blink of an eye. Faceless men, women, children. The man hardly noticed any of them. He remained the outsider he’d always been. He waited.

To one who waits, every excruciating second feels like a lifetime. Many seconds had passed. It had been fourteen hundred years since that fateful day. Fourteen hundred years since he’d last seen him. And still he waited.

In the present day, a bruised and battered world was struggling to recover from the bloodiest war it had ever seen, still blissfully unaware of the destruction that would follow in the next decades. The Great Depression would not strike for another ten years. At this moment in time, all seemed well enough. Interbellum, the history books call it now – the period of time between two wars. If only they’d known. Who knows what could have been avoided?

He was living a secluded life at the time, in the cottage he had built for himself so many lifetimes ago. It was situated at the edge of the lake, in the very spot where everything he had once held dear had abruptly and cruelly ceased to exist – he hadn’t been able to bear the thought of leaving Arthur behind. Still couldn’t, if he was honest with himself. He had lived here for so long that it had started to feel as if he was one with this place. One with the silent resilience of the trees, one with the water that was never still and the wind that never ceased. He belonged here now. Avalon was his home.

Or maybe it was Arthur who was his home. It didn’t make much of a difference, really, when you thought about it.

The day that everything changed started out normal enough. He’d gone out to the lake as he did every day, looking out over the grey water to the crumbling tower in the distance, waiting, hoping against hope. Everything looked the same as it had for centuries.

Nothing seemed to have changed, yet the man stayed at the shore longer than usual. He couldn’t explain exactly why he didn’t go back inside, why he felt like he _couldn’t_. It was a cold day, unseasonably so, and windy, the threat of rain hanging heavy in the air. The man could feel his hands growing numb inside his pockets as he gazed out over the murky water. They had been bothering him for years, his hands, grown stiff and knobbly with age, arthritis rendering them practically useless. Though he knew he would later have to pay the price for staying out so long, he ignored his growing discomfort. Hopeful expectation was expanding rapidly and inexplicably inside his chest.

Another quarter of an hour passed and nothing happened. Maybe he’d imagined it after all, this strange and powerful sensation – premonition, almost - that something wondrous was about to happen. That all of the earth and water and sky were waiting for it with bated breath. Maybe there wasn’t anything special about this day after all. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d deluded himself into thinking that _today was the day, today, finally_ , though it had been a while since it had happened last. A while since he’d allowed himself to feel so much hope. It had hurt too much, waiting for something that never came. Being disappointed time and time again.

Giving up, the man turned to go back inside. He was facing almost completely away from the lake when it happened. The clouds that had been forming a seemingly perpetual blanket over the land parted, a single ray of the purest sunshine peeking through the gap and catching his eye. The soft light threw a shimmering golden hue over everything it touched, caressing the earth with its warmth and lovingly reviving it after the long hard winter. The man looked at the specks of light dancing lightly across the surface of the lake and at the small waves lapping at the shore, some half-forgotten emotion stirring in his gut. In the sunlight, the water suddenly looked a deep and almost painfully familiar blue. He hadn’t seen that particularly brilliant shade of blue in many, many years – too many to count. Painfully vivid memories of eyes this blue and the living, breathing man they once belonged to flashed through his mind, temporarily blurring his vision.

The man could feel something inside him finally slotting back into place. His heart ached, but it was a good ache – warm and full of wonder. This was no ordinary moment, he knew, no coincidence. It couldn’t be explained by mere logic. Magic of the purest kind was at work here - the kind of magic that made up the very fabric of this world, the kind that had created him so many lifetimes ago. The light wasn’t just out there, it was inside him as well, lighting up his age-old soul. As it wrapped around his neglected heart in a loving caress, it chased away the cynicism that lurked in the shadows and lifted the doubt.

The feeling only lasted for a moment. Then the clouds joined together and obscured the sun, and the spell was broken. The wind picked up again as if nothing had happened, but the man went back inside with hope in his heart. When he put the kettle on the fire, his hands felt different. He didn’t feel anything – no pain, no stiffness, nothing. He flexed his hands experimentally, expecting the pain to return. Still nothing. Looking out the window at the cloudy sky overhead, he smiled for what felt like the first time in centuries. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, yet everything felt different. Change was coming. It was starting.

 

_Albion_ _, 500’s_

Merlin didn’t know how much time had passed since it had happened. Day had turned into night had turned back into day, yet he did not move. There was no point in it, in any of it. He sat at the water’s edge with his head in his hands, unseeing eyes burning with tears that wouldn’t fall. He was completely numb. Everything had ceased to matter. Arthur was gone.

Percival was the one to find him, in the end. Suddenly he was there, kneeling on the muddy floor beside Merlin as he put a heavy hand on his shoulder. For the briefest of moments, the young warlock looked up at his friend and really saw him. His eyes seemed too old for him - as if he’d lived a thousand lives and died a thousand times. Neither of them spoke. Merlin gave a barely perceptible nod of recognition before closing off again and resuming his previous position. With a heavy sigh, the knight sat down next to him and gave himself over to his thoughts.

They sat in silence for a very long time. Then Percival got up and grabbed his sword from where he’d discarded it earlier. He turned on his heel and disappeared in the bushes surrounding them. The sounds of his cloak rustling over the grass and branches snapping under his boots quickly faded away, and it was quiet once again. Dully, Merlin wondered where his friend had gone – whether he’d been left behind once again - before remembering he didn’t care. He couldn’t. Not anymore. He closed his eyes and tried to disappear.

He hadn’t heard Percival return, but as the setting sun threw long shadows across the water and dusk turned into darkness, a fire was started a few feet behind him. It was only when the strong smell of roasted rabbit wafted over him that he realized he was hungry. Starving, even – he hadn’t eaten in who knows how many days, and as much as he may wish he wasn’t, he was still more or less human. When the knight offered him part of the rabbit meat, he took it gratefully. Chewing slowly, he stared into the crackling fire. He watched the mysteriously graceful patterns of the dancing flames and felt the warmth of the fire soak into his body. He was alive, and he remembered. He remembered his past life - the life _before._ Before he lost his King, his other half. Before he failed his destiny. It felt like years rather than days ago. It felt unreachable. He may be alive, but he was broken.

He had all but forgotten that he wasn’t alone at the lake when Percival finally spoke up, pulling him from the bittersweet safety of his memories back to the present. “Merlin, please talk to me,” the concern in the knight’s voice was striking, his tone imploring. Merlin just looked at him. He wanted to say something – anything - to reassure his friend, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words - there weren’t any.

“What happened to you?” Percival tried again, “Who-” He fell abruptly silent as his words caused a fierce pain to flash across the young warlock’s face. He could almost feel his heart sink. Suddenly, Percival dreaded the answer he would get. He knew that look, and knew it well – he’d seen it many times on his travels across the Five Kingdoms. It was the look of a man who had lost everything. Whatever had happened, it had caused that look to settle in the eyes of his brave friend, and Percival didn’t know if he could bear to hear the reason. If he could carry that burden, too, besides his own. He wanted to be strong for the sake of his friend - strong enough for both of them - but his grief for Gwaine was still heavy on his heart. For a moment, Percival lost himself as a rush of his own painful memories crashed over him like a wave. When he resurfaced, Merlin had turned away from him, and his friend knew not to push him. Not yet. He would keep silent for now, but he would not give up.

Night came, cloaking the world in darkness. Percival quickly fell asleep next to the dying fire but Merlin stayed awake, keeping watch. As the glowing embers slowly turned into ash, he too succumbed to a slumber-like state, somewhere between sleeping and waking. He hadn’t truly slept since before it happened – he didn’t think he would ever feel safe enough again. The presence of another solid human being – a friend – did help, though. For the very first time in this wretched, unwanted new life, he didn’t feel completely alone, and he was grateful.

_England, 900’s_

During his darkest times, even eating felt like too much effort. Starvation would not kill him, anyway.

_Albion, 500’s_

The grey light of dawn was already filtering through the clouds when Merlin first stirred again. He looked across the fireplace to find that his friend was still fast asleep, though he was moaning and thrashing restlessly. The young warlock got up to relight the fire and boil some water. He didn’t use magic – couldn’t yet bring himself to. His failure to save Arthur was still too fresh, and using magic for anything or anyone other than his King felt pointless. His magic had no purpose, and so he lived without it. At least for now.

He had just finished the broth when a raspy voice suddenly came from the other side of the fire. “You made breakfast?” Percival sounded surprised, and Merlin couldn’t blame him. After all, he hadn’t moved or spoken since his friend arrived the day before, had hardly even acknowledged him. He knew the knight was worried about him, more worried than he’d let on, and he couldn’t allow that to last. “Yeah,” Merlin’s voice croaked with disuse as he responded. After ladling some food on a plate, he handed it to his companion and smiled. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, Percival noted, but at least he was trying. What was more, the haunted look on his face had lifted infinitesimally, a little bit of life returning to his features. He no longer looked like a mere shell of a man, empty and forsaken, floating somewhere between dead and alive. Percival hoped that maybe Merlin was feeling a little better – or at least a little bit less miserable. He smiled softly to himself as he took the first bite. On the other side of the fire, while spooning some broth on his own plate, the young warlock sent a silent thank you to whoever was listening for sending him his friend.

They ate in companionable silence. It was some time after breakfast before Percival spoke again. The question he asked was simple, really, as was the answer. But with just one simple phrase, the semblance of peace that had settled over their camp was violently ripped apart, and Merlin’s world shattered all over again. All-encompassing grief overpowered him, pierced him - the crushing weight of it bowed his shoulders and made it impossible to breathe. “Arthur’s dead, isn’t he?” the knight asked. The slight quiver in his voice betrayed he may already know the answer, or at least fear it. Merlin couldn’t bring himself to look at him. It was too much, he thought dully as a fresh wave of devastating grief tore through him – too much for any man to bear. The pain and guilt were ripping him apart, and for the first time since it had happened, the warlock broke down. His chest heaved as desperate sobs racked his body. He barely noticed when Percival moved around the fire and crouched down next to him, putting a large hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture. Merlin looked up at his friend as he wept openly, and the pain in his eyes was unimaginable. Quiet tears streamed uninterrupted down his face, his grief too colossal for words, and Percival understood. He bowed his head and mourned his King.

Eventually, the seemingly endless tears stopped coming. Merlin was exhausted, even more drained than he’d been before, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Grief was almost a physical presence at the lake now, and he needed to get away before it suffocated him. However, during the last few hours it had become increasingly clear that he couldn’t return to Camelot – not without Arthur. This left Merlin with only one possible course of action, and he would have to set it in motion now. Though it broke his heart to leave his King behind, he had to go now or he would never have the strength to.

He spoke up with the desperation of a drowning man, surprising both Percival and himself. “I’m leaving for Ealdor. Alone.” His voice was hoarse but steady as he continued, “You must return to Camelot. Tell the people what happened. They deserve to know. I just can’t bear-”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Percival interrupted him, his even tone brokering no argument. “Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin. You’re not going anywhere alone, especially not now. Who would protect you?”  
“I can take care of myself.” He would have to. And he could. After all, he always had.  
“I know you can. Just- let me do this for you, Merlin, okay? Please.” Percival’s voice broke on the last word, and the young warlock realized he might not be the only one at the campfire who was broken. He knew it was selfish, but he didn’t ask, just nodded his assent. The knight clapped a hand on his shoulder and stood up. In silence, they prepared to leave.

 

_Camelot, 500’s_

Merlin was not cut out to be a servant. He knew it, Arthur knew it, and it wouldn’t surprise him if the entire population of Camelot knew it too. Yet he was still here, years after he first set foot inside the castle walls, and from time to time he even did something right. Not often. But still.

Lately it had occurred to him that Arthur didn’t even try to look annoyed anymore when Merlin forgot to lay out his clothes, burned his breakfast or neglected to make his bed. He just reacted in a vaguely fond, half-distracted way now, shrugging it off when his servant stole the grapes off his plate or put his chainmail on the wrong way. He even got slightly defensive whenever someone criticized Merlin’s less-than-stellar performance, eyes flashing dangerously as he swiftly cut down whoever had dared to bring up the subject. It was strange, Merlin sometimes mused during his increasingly rare quiet moments, but despite their rocky start and vast differences, in spite of the secret that always loomed large and imposing between them, they seemed to have become true friends.

The easy-going bond between them was never as obvious as when they were alone together. Merlin often accompanied the Prince on his patrol duty or on royal missions, riding with him in unspoken support and solidarity. In the relative privacy of Arthur’s chambers, they spent many precious hours together as well, Arthur writing letters and reading progress reports and Merlin pretending to do the housekeeping. During these times few words were exchanged, but both were comfortable and content. From time to time one or the other would speak – asking advice or offering it, commenting idly on the weather or the current state of affairs at the court, the mutual friendly ribbing almost a reflex now.

Other people had to take notice eventually, and more than once Merlin found himself the unwilling conversational partner of low-ranking members of the court who had never even deemed to speak to him before his friendship with the Prince developed. Merlin managed to brush most of them off easily enough, but some of the more persistent ended up finding themselves at the receiving end of a small dose of deflecting magic, their attention from then on always diverted right before approaching the servant. It was actually rather satisfying to watch, even though Gaius disapproved heavily.

After a while the close scrutiny died down and the interest in the Prince and his somewhat odd servant dwindled, which suited Merlin and Arthur just fine. Their newfound friendship persisted and flourished, and that was what counted.

And when along the way the mutual fondness morphed into a much deeper affection, when friendly touches started lingering and their eyes locked more and more often, well, neither of them acknowledged it. After all, what could be done?

 

_Albion, 500’s_

Merlin knew he was stalling. Hesitant to leave, he kept packing and repacking his meagre belongings, taking extra care to erase every trace of their presence at the lake. The sun had risen high over the water when he finally couldn’t delay any longer. It was time. Standing up from where he’d been kneeling and brushing the dirt off his clothes, Merlin strapped his satchel across his back. He snuck a fleeting glance at Percival, pleading wordlessly for his understanding. The knight gave a curt nod and started to walk ahead, giving his friend the space to say goodbye. As the sound of his boots on the dry leaves faded into the background, Merlin turned back to the lake. It really was beautiful here, he thought distractedly. Rays of sunlight glinted off the choppy surface of the lake, throwing rainbows everywhere. A soft breeze carried with it the sweet sounds and smells of summer. The peaceful serenity of the moment seemed almost unreal to his shattered soul. Right then and there, the young warlock vowed he would return – when he could. Tears stung his eyes as he turned and slowly walked away.

The first day of their journey passed uneventfully. Summer had finally arrived in all her glory, and everything around them was teeming with life – overflowing with it. It was ironic, really, Merlin mused as they travelled through rich green forests and meadows full of wildflowers, across grassy hills and bubbling streams. To be surrounded with such exuberant life, such unadulterated, uncomplicated joy, when all he felt was a heavy, desperate sense of loss. But the air was thick with the scent of flowers, of earth and grass and the promise of rain, and it kept him moving. When they set up camp for the night, they hadn’t spoken more than a handful of sentences to each other, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was reassuring, comforting in ways that neither of them really understood. For the first time since everything happened, they slept uninterrupted.

They woke up shivering early the next morning. In this part of the land, mornings were chilly even in summer, the icy touch of long, harsh winters never quite forgotten. A soft rain had left all their belongings slightly damp, draining their warmth. Eager to get on their way, knight and warlock shared a simple meal and packed up their camp. It was still drizzling when they set off on another long day of travelling. Merlin looked up at the pearly grey sky and sighed. It didn’t look like the weather would improve anytime soon. Over his shoulder, he glanced back to where Percival was walking silently, following his lead and wrestling his way through the thick underbrush without complaint. Aware he was being watched, the knight threw a quick look in his direction and smiled tentatively. Merlin’s answering smile was thin and fleeting, but at least it was there. He allowed himself one brief moment of gratitude for his friend’s presence. Then he put his head down and ploughed on.

 

_Camelot, 500’s_

“ _MERLIN,_ ” the more-than-a-little breathless voice behind him called out, somehow managing to sound fond and exasperated at the same time. Merlin laughed jubilantly and turned away from the call, instead running down the hill as fast as his legs would carry him. He was gathering more and more speed, hurtling past patches of lush flowers spreading a heady scent and green-leaved bushes laden with low-hanging summer fruits. He almost felt like he was flying.

Surely he had lost his pursuer by now. Merlin might look a bit scrawny compared to the knights he spent most of his time around, but he was quick on his feet. And for all that the man chasing him talked about training all the time, he sure was slow – Merlin couldn’t even hear his footfalls thudding after him anymore. Actually, now that he thought about it – that was rather suspicious. Slowing to a more moderate pace, Merlin surveyed the silent woods around him. Nothing. Maybe his chaser had taken a wrong turn and gotten lost somewhere. Or he had decided it wasn’t worth the effort and turned back. A small prickle of unease diffused his glee as Merlin looked back again. Just then, a heavy weight slammed into him from the side, bringing him down.

“You didn’t really think you could outrun me,” Arthur tried to control his breathing as he held his friend down effortlessly, “did you now, _Mer_ lin?” He sounded smug, his tone lightly teasing.  
“Get _off_ me, you prat-” Merlin shouted out in protest, trying his best to sound indignant even as he felt the involuntary grin spreading over his face. He struggled against Arthur’s iron grip for precious moments. Unsurprisingly, his attempts proved utterly futile. In this position, the knight was in complete control. Not to mention the fact that he was in fact a rather skilled warrior – not that he needed to be reminded of that. If his head got any bigger, Merlin feared it would actually fall off.

The warlock couldn’t say he minded his current predicament much. The forest floor was warm and unexpectedly soft under his back, and the exhilaration from the chase had left him buzzing. It was a beautiful summer afternoon in Camelot. The forest was quiet, deserted except for the two of them and the birds singing high in the trees. There were no threats that demanded his immediate attention, no dangers that had to be taken care of. In this moment, with life thrumming insistently in his chest and blood singing in his veins, Merlin was happy.

Giving up his resistance, the sorcerer shielded his eyes with his hand and looked up at Arthur. From this angle, the warm sunlight filtering through the trees formed a bright halo around his head – a natural crown. It made him look angelic and strangely regal at the same time. He looked beautiful in a way that was almost outer-worldly, supremely untouchable and utterly breakable all at once.

Almost as if he sensed Merlin looking, Arthur glanced down at him and smiled. The smile lit up his face with its intensity, and it made him look much younger than usual. His deep blue eyes were shining with a carefree, unadulterated kind of joy. It wasn’t an expression Merlin got to see often enough, and something twisted sharply in his gut at the sight. He wished there was more he could do to keep Arthur like this – to keep the smile on his face and the joy in his heart. He tried his best, always. It never seemed like it was quite enough. So far, in a way he had been lucky. No one had managed to take Arthur away yet, to crumple his fragile life in the blink of an eye. But it could happen – it would be easy. All it really took was one well-aimed blow. The Prince was only human after all and as such, any second of any day could be his last. Merlin knew all this – of course he did. He’d reminded himself time after time after time. Cautioned himself not to get too attached, to keep his distance, to stay vigilant. Failed to do just that exactly as many times. He couldn’t help himself. Arthur was magnetic to him, a force of nature, impossible to resist. Merlin drew in a shaky breath as quiet contentedness was replaced by naked fear and dark need in seconds, the sudden change leaving him reeling.

“You can’t talk to me like that, I’m a prince,” Arthur was saying gleefully, wholly oblivious to his friend’s inner turmoil. “And to think I almost let you win, too-” Without warning, he leaned in to ruffle the warlock’s hair in a teasing gesture. The unexpected contact made Merlin gasp audibly. He looked up at the Prince in shock. His walls were still down after the thrill of the chase – his soul laid bare for everyone to see. As he found Arthur’s gaze and held it, a familiar yearning burned low and steady in his gut. Their eyes locked with something that felt like inevitability.

Arthur breathed out in a surprised huff, holding Merlin’s gaze as the light humour in his eyes faded away. It was replaced by something else, something darker and quieter and more intense. Something that was both wholly unfamiliar and as natural as breathing. Merlin couldn’t look away. Some far-off part of his mind shouted at him to break the contact, to cover up and brush it off, to try and salvage any part of this friendship as it used to be. He couldn’t make himself do it. He couldn’t stop this, whatever it was. All he knew was that Arthur was still touching him, and that he didn’t ever want him to let go.

“Wha-” The broken-off question was barely more than an exhalation, a whisper in the solemn quiet of the woods. He was so _close_. Merlin swallowed convulsively, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his lips in a nervous gesture. Arthur’s eyes tracked the slow bob of his throat and darkened impossibly at the sight. As if on instinct, he leaned in even closer. Merlin didn’t know what to do, couldn’t make sense of it all as his mind went in overdrive. This was what he had always – resolutely, desperately – forbidden himself to think about, had never allowed himself to hope for. He’d thought it was impossible, yet here they were. Merlin was vaguely aware of his heart thundering in his chest, his anticipation building as his breath burned in his lungs. The desire to just reach out and touch was overwhelming. It flared up sharp and hot, even as a slither of raw panic clawed at the back of his throat. He made no move to pull away.

The sound of the clock tower interrupted them, startling them both into looking away. The anticipatory energy of the moment immediately subsided, retreating back in on itself as Arthur cleared his throat and stood up, brushing off his clothes. Merlin regretted the loss of contact immediately. The bitter taste of _almost_ was heavy on his tongue. His protective walls had broken down today, irrevocably so, but no new order had been established. All he was left with was chaos and confusion.

 

_Albion_ _, 500’s_

The attack came out of nowhere. One moment they were alone, steadily making their way across the rugged mountains of the Kingdom; the next they were surrounded.

For a second, Merlin was thrown. Shock had the blood draining from his face and his heart lodged firmly in his throat. Simultaneously, everything around him grinded to a halt. The silence that followed was deafening, almost eerie in its intensity. Slowly, the young warlock lifted his head and looked around. It had stopped raining abruptly. The wind had gone down, not a leaf moving on the trees. There was no sound – no animals scurrying across the forest floor, no birds singing their songs from the treetops. Everything was frozen mid motion. The beating of his own heart was thunderous in his ears as Merlin felt the initial rush of adrenalin wear off. Stopping time had been a reflex, not a conscious decision – he couldn’t have stopped it if he’d tried. He needed time to think.

It was not looking good, Merlin thought as he assessed their situation. The ragged looking men surrounding them were most likely bandits seeking easy prey - they wouldn’t be interested in taking prisoners. There were nine of them, which meant they were outnumbered more than four to one, and their attackers were armed to the teeth. They’d need more than Percival’s considerable fighting skills to get out of this unscathed.

As soon as Merlin reached this sobering conclusion, time sprang back into motion. The world went on spinning as if nothing had happened to disrupt its orbit, and Percival acted immediately. Without taking his eyes of the bandits, he grabbed Merlin by the arm and dragged him behind his protective back. “I’ll distract them,” the knight whispered over his shoulder, “You go ahead. Run as soon as you get the chance. I’ll catch up.” There was no hint of hesitation in his voice – only grim determination. As he prepared to fight his way out, realization struck Merlin like a physical blow to the chest. Percival was an exceptional warrior, but even he couldn’t take on this many people on his own, and he knew it. He didn’t really believe he would make it out; he was sacrificing himself for the sake of his friend without a second thought. The nobleness of the gesture caused a wave of déjà vu so strong it nearly floored Merlin, and he just watched numbly as the knight straightened up and squared his shoulders. When he drew his sword, Merlin was finally jolted into action. Putting a restraining hand on Percival’s shoulder and ignoring his hissed protests, he stepped forward and faced the bandits.

It was a relief, he thought as he allowed his magic to finally reclaim him. He had denied this part of himself for far too long, and it had cost him dearly. His power was almost a tangible presence as it spread through him in a whisper, its reassuring warmth filling him rapidly. He could feel tendrils of his magic uncoiling, stretching up and away from his core and reaching every part of him. His fingertips tingled with the promise of it. His magic was brimming just under the surface, but he kept it tightly controlled – for now. When he addressed the bandits, he didn’t raise his voice. “If you value your lives,” he started, his voice dangerously low, “you’ll walk away.” When nothing happened, he bit out, “ _Now_.” It was almost a growl, a clear warning, and for a second everybody was perfectly still. Then the tallest of their attackers threw his head back and laughed, defiant.

Merlin felt Percival tense behind him, high-strung with anticipation as the other bandits joined in the uproarious laughter. Instinctively, the warlock reached back to stop his friend from starting the attack. “Let me,” he said in an undertone. “I’ll handle this.” The tall bandit – the leader of the group, Merlin thought - overheard him, leading in a new bout of raucous laughter as he bellowed, “ _You_? _You’ll_ handle this? You think you can take us down?” He drew his sword and took a step closer, his features suddenly turning menacing as he sneered, “I’d like to see you try.” Percival fidgeted behind him again but Merlin ignored him. His focus was completely on the man in front of him. As he looked up into the bandit’s jeering face, he felt calmer than he had in ages – in control. “If I were you,” he began, voice soft like velvet, “I wouldn’t do what you are about to do. I really, really wouldn’t.” The man snarled again, his upper lip curling up in contempt as he hissed, “What are you going to do? Stop me?” He was taunting him now, and Merlin felt his control slowly slipping away from him. Breathing harshly through his nose, he dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands to keep his focus. He wouldn’t be able to hold himself together much longer. “You don’t want to know what I’m capable of,” he replied tersely, “Trust me.” The man laughed again as he stepped even closer, leaning into Merlin’s personal space. He smelt distinctly of old sweat and stale liquor. His filthy clothes and matted beard were splattered with streaks of dried blood, and revulsion rose in Merlin’s throat like bile. When the bandit bared his yellow teeth in a grin and moved to grab hold of his arm, he let everything go.

It was like opening the floodgates. A raging torrent of magic exploded out of him with such force it could have flattened an army. He didn’t need a spell – not now. Cold fury coursed through him as he watched their attackers being blasted backwards. Their leader landed with a sickening crunch yards from where he’d been standing. He didn’t move to get up, and Merlin didn’t check up on him. Instead, he turned away and grabbed Percival by the arm. “Let’s go,” he said quietly as he walked away. The knight didn’t argue, just hurried after him.

They didn’t get far before exhaustion hit Merlin like a ton of bricks and he stumbled, his footing suddenly unsure. Percival’s steadying hand immediately shot out to hold him up, and the warlock needed it. He let the knight support most of his weight as he took a moment to steady his breathing. He felt drained. Worn out. Empty. He’d channelled all his emotions into his magic – allowed all the rage, all the grief and despair of the past days to come to the surface. Now all he was left with was fatigue – pitch black and all consuming. He swayed where he stood, slipping in and out of consciousness. He was vaguely aware of Percival talking to him, voice pitched high with worry, but he couldn’t get him into focus. He barely noticed when he touched the ground. Gratefully, he let sleep drag him under.

 

_East Anglia, 800’s_

Her name was Vera, and she was lovely. Merlin watched her with a quiet fondness as she laughed freely at something the market salesman said, dark eyes lighting up her pretty face. He continued to watch her as she said goodbye to the men at the stall and made her way to him across the town square, the shadow of a smile still gracing her features. It was moments like these in which Vera’s resemblance to Gwen really took his breath away. Merlin couldn’t help himself – his perpetual vague feeling of guilt momentarily forgotten, he smiled back.

Merlin still vividly remembered their first meeting. Vera had been running errands for the noblewoman she worked for when she had passed through a quiet part of town and inadvertently caught the attention of a group of drunk thugs. The fattest one of the lot had grabbed the sleeve of her dress to keep her from leaving as they all jeered at her and taunted her. Vera had bravely stood her ground but Merlin still shuddered to think what might have happened if he hadn’t walked by in that moment. His magic may have faded somewhat since the last time he had used it, but it was still more than strong enough for this. Anger flared hot and strong in his veins and further fuelled his power. He took them out in one blow and didn’t look back.

“I could have handled them on my own, you know,” Vera had managed to sound breathless as well as defiant as she followed him down the narrow street. “My parents taught me how to fight.” Merlin almost smiled at her brazen attitude. Trying very hard to reel in the magic running hot and wild under his skin, he turned to face her fully. “I’m sure you’re right about that, but I thought I would-” He fell silent as he got his first good look at the girl he had saved. He felt like he had been punched in the gut. She was Guinevere in every way – from the earnest almond eyes to the proud jut of her chin. Merlin’s heart rate picked up as he took in the caramel skin, the delicate features and the dark hair cascading in gentle curls down the girl’s back. She was dressed simply, a peasant girl, but the material of her dress was new and nicely put together. A single white flower stuck out from the buttonhole of her cape. The basket hanging from her arm was filled to the brim with groceries. Merlin felt like he had forcefully been thrust several centuries back in time, and he was hit with a wave of déjà vu so strong it nearly brought him to his knees.

Following his gaze as it was fixed unseeingly on her basket, Vera suddenly seemed to remember the purpose of her trip into town. She straightened up ever so slightly and coughed delicately into her fist to get Merlin’s attention. “I should be going,” she said, already half turning to leave as she spoke. Merlin just nodded, still reeling. He felt like he was waking up from a very deep sleep. The girl walked a few paces down the street before resolutely turning back and sticking out her hand. After the briefest of hesitations Merlin took it. “I’m Vera,” she said, not waiting for his reply before adding, “thanks for doing what you did back there. That was very nice of you.” She didn’t mention his magic, nor was she shying away from him in fear. That was unusual to say the least, especially in this part of the country. Merlin couldn’t help but admire her attitude. He returned her handshake. “I’m Merlin,” he replied, “And don’t mention it. It was nothing.” Vera ignored the last part of his remark as she nodded once and smiled at him. “Nice to meet you, Merlin,” she said, “I expect I will see you around.” She walked away then, rearranging her dress as she went.

Years had passed since that day, and the girl and the warlock had become friends. Vera’s kind eyes and gentle soul had touched Merlin in ways he hadn’t expected. She wasn’t Gwen, as a tiny part of his mind had secretly hoped, but she was worth knowing all on her own. Even though he sometimes suspected Vera wanted more from him than he could ever hope to offer, the suspicion was never confirmed. She seemed happy just to be his friend. Her fascination with his magic was almost childlike in its light-hearted enthusiasm. The absence of fear or judgement was refreshing, like balm on parched skin, and the warlock drank it all in.

Back in the present, Vera had finally reached him, effectively shaking him from his reverie by swooping in to kiss him on the cheek. They spent the day together like they always did, laughing and talking and sharing stories. She really was a picture, Merlin noted almost absently as he looked at the young woman sitting across from him. There was so much brightness in her, the perpetual mirth in her dark eyes betraying her uncomplicated zest for life. It reminded him of how he himself had felt once, long ago – much longer than anyone should have to remember.

He was far away in the labyrinth of his own mind, sunk to the chest in memories of lifetimes past and friendships lost. He didn’t notice at first that she had fallen silent. When finally he came back to himself, Vera was looking at him patiently, evidently waiting for the answer to a question he had not heard. “Forgive me,” Merlin said quietly, an apology clear in his soft voice. The girl just smiled, and there was a sadness to her, like she knew exactly where her friend’s thoughts had taken him. And even though Vera – like Guinevere before her – had shown herself to be remarkably empathetic in the years that they had been friends, the next words out of her mouth still took Merlin by surprise. “Tell me about him,” Vera said softly, “Tell me about the man you love.”

Much later, he would realize that Vera had in fact been distantly related to his Once and Future Queen. Not that it mattered much, in the grand scheme of things. Vera had been there and gone already. She had lived a full and happy life, and it had ended like it should have – like _his_ should have, centuries ago already. And though Merlin missed his friend terribly, he couldn’t begrudge her that.

 

_Albion, 500’s_

It was the middle of the night when Merlin awoke with a start. He wasn’t sure what had woken him. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness, but was immediately on edge, his heart pounding furiously against his ribcage as he tried to orient himself. Allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he was completely still and listened. It was a quiet night. A light wind whispered through the trees and rustled the leaves. A barn owl hooted dolefully nearby. Percival’s slow breathing came from somewhere close to him. The knight was fast asleep, uninterrupted by strange sounds and panicked dreams. The young warlock let it reassure him as he gradually drifted back to sleep.

When he woke again, he was startled to find it was morning. The sun had already come up – in fact, it was closer to noon than dawn. How on _earth_ did he sleep this long? They didn’t have time for this! They had to leave now, or they wouldn’t make it to Ealdor before nightfall. Merlin sat up quickly, groaning as his entire body screamed in protest. A throbbing pain seemed to have settled into his bones overnight, radiating outwards with alarming intensity. Apparently, the previous day had taken its toll. Grimacing, Merlin waited for the pain to dull as he looked around their makeshift camp. He was surprised to find his breakfast already cooked and Percival holding it out to him. The knight’s smile turned to a smirk when his friend gingerly took the plate from him and winced at the motion.

For a while, they were both silent. The food was warm, and Merlin was grateful. He ate quickly while Percival watched him, obviously mulling something over. Finally, the knight spoke up, “So. You have magic, then?” His tone was light, almost conversational, but the effect of his words was shocking. Merlin stiffened and grew pale, flinching as if he’d been slapped. Seeing this reaction, the knight hurried to assure him, “Calm down, Merlin. I’m not upset or anything. Just… surprised, I guess.” Merlin didn’t reply. His mouth had gone dry and he chewed his food without tasting it. His back was ramrod straight, posture stiff as tension rolled off him in heavy waves. Percival didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. “Come to think of it, it does explain a few things,” he mused, more to himself than to anyone else. At this, Merlin’s head snapped up, face wary. The knight shot him a slightly apologetic smile as he explained, “Like how you rarely got injured even though you can’t wield a sword to save your life. Or why Arthur always took you on missions with him-” He stopped talking abruptly, shocked into silence by the intense pain flashing in Merlin’s eyes. Alarmed, he moved to get up.

“Arthur didn’t know,” the young warlock croaked miserably. He hung his head, a fresh wave of shame and guilt washing over him at the admission. A look of shocked surprise flickered across Percival’s face, but he didn’t say anything and Merlin tried to explain, sounding almost desperate, “I couldn’t tell him. I just couldn’t. It was never the right time, and I just-” It sounded feeble even to his own ears. He fell silent as the now familiar sense of depression crept over him like a thick fog. Its tendrils wrapped tightly around him, cloaking him in ice. Hopelessness devoured him, pitch black and sharp as a knife – he couldn’t shake it off. Not on his own. Not anymore. It was too much.

So lost was Merlin in his darkness that at first he didn’t notice – didn’t register the warm arm around his shoulder or the soothing voice of his friend nearby. He was cut off from the rest of the world, isolated, dragged far below the surface with only misery for company. He didn’t fight it – it was all he deserved. Eventually, though, he had to come back up, and he saw. Percival was still there for him, still offering support. Even now. Even when he didn’t deserve it. Merlin had to choke back tears.

“Who else knew?” Percival asked in a soft voice, utterly without judgement. Merlin swallowed thickly before he replied, “Gaius knew, and Lancelot. Arthur, too, in the- in the end-” His voice broke on the last word. Percival squeezed his shoulder in comfort.

“I think I understand why you felt you couldn’t tell me,” the knight said, but he sounded wistful when he continued, “I just wish you would’ve. I wouldn’t have turned on you. You should have known that.” It wasn’t meant as a reproach, but Merlin still felt ashamed. “I wanted to tell you,” his voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat before continuing, “I did, I just- I couldn’t. I didn’t want you to have to choose, didn’t want to put you in that position. Any of you.”

More silence met his words. Merlin wasn’t sure whether the knight understood his reasoning or even still believed him. He felt like he couldn’t breathe properly, anxiety winding like thick, unyielding ropes around his chest. He was mentally bracing himself for the inevitable rejection when Percival suddenly sprang up. Merlin flinched involuntarily as he waited for the confrontation. It never came. When he looked up, the knight was waiting to help him up, one large hand extended towards him. His expression was inscrutable, his features carefully blank. If there was a fleeting trace of sadness to his half-smile, a flicker of hurt – well, he was fighting hard to hide it, and Merlin wasn’t about to call him out on it. Relief flooded through him as he scrambled to take his friend’s outstretched hand. They packed up quickly and disappeared into the woods.

_England_ _, 1500’s_

His magic wasn’t what it used to be. It was still there, but barely, like it had faded somehow - curled in on itself, like a sleeping cat conserving body heat. It no longer filled him with the tingling warmth that it used to. It hadn’t for many years. He still felt cold without it.

He remembered it, though. Vividly. It had been like a whirlwind once, his magic – a living, breathing creature, born from the very fabric of the world. At times he had felt heady with it, with the power, with the sheer joy of it raging inside him. Of wielding something that was so unashamedly vibrant, so perfectly unpredictable, so _strong_. It was beautiful. Or it had been. But no more.

He couldn’t use it for much these days. That what remained of his magic had grown increasingly fragile, ready to break or disappear when put under too much strain.

Anyway, using it was too dangerous now. Across the land, those with magic had yet again found themselves with a target on their back. Practising magic or even claiming to do so was grounds for execution without a fair trial. These so-called witch-hunts were vicious, and they were everywhere. Most of those who were said to be witches were innocent, yet they burned at the stake in front of their families. Others were forced to go into hiding, to leave everything and everyone behind and run for their lives. The Dark Ages, indeed.

Merlin was intimately acquainted with this particular brand of cruelty, of course. He knew the fear that was behind it. He’d seen it, seen the utter inability to understand, even in the one he loved the most. Back then, he’d hoped and prayed for it to be resolved somehow. Someday. Soon, please. _Please._

He’d gotten his wish in the end. The ban of magic was lifted by the Once and Future Queen, the grieving woman with the kindest heart of all. The Old Religion rose from the ashes like a phoenix, flourishing and prospering like never before. However, the price Merlin had to pay for the freedom of his kin was a terrible one. Even after so many years had passed he still lay awake in the darkest hours of the night, wondering whether it had all been worth it. It was selfish to think like this, he knew – surely the sacrifice of one person was a fair price to pay for the freedom of his people? Of course it was, he told himself firmly, _it was – it must have been._ If only his aching heart would believe it.

As for the witch-hunts, Merlin did what he could. He left his house at the lake for months on end, moved away from his King with desperation flowing sharp like acid through his veins. He travelled around, sneaking into high-walled cities in the black of the night without causing alarm. Freeing as many of the frightened innocents awaiting their cruel execution as he possibly could. It wasn’t enough, though. It was never enough. He couldn’t save everyone, not by a long shot. Too much was happening all at once, at the same time. Too many people were dying, and there was nothing more he could do. A thousand years ago, his ire would have stopped time. It actually did, a couple of times. But with this brittle, whispery shadow of his magic, Merlin could do nothing. Could _be_ nothing. So he saved the few people he was able to reach, opening their cell doors to the pitch black of the night before disappearing without a trace. He didn’t want their gratitude. He didn’t feel he deserved it.

 

_Ealdor, 500’s_

They arrived in Ealdor shortly after midnight. The village lay dark and silent underneath the ink black sky, the villagers sleeping peacefully. Merlin put his finger to his lips in warning, not wanting to cause a disturbance as he led them past the tiny houses just off the main road. He still knew this place like the back of his hand, but it struck him suddenly that it wasn’t home anymore – hadn’t been for a very long time. He’d made a mistake in thinking he could come back here for a prolonged period of time. Already, the separation from his King gnawed at his heart. He didn’t belong here anymore. It was his mother he needed to see. As they reached the door to Hunith’s house, Merlin slowed down and looked around. It all looked the same. Nothing had changed here since he was born, and probably long before that. It was he who was different. He looked back at Percival with a question in his eyes, and the knight nodded and fell back. For a second, Merlin hesitated. Then he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Without the light of the moon to guide him, Merlin was temporarily blind in the pitch black of the house. His mother had extinguished the fire before going to bed, and the embers had long since gone out. Only a faint scent of burnt wood still lingered in the still air. After so many days spent outside, the silence was almost suffocating, the absence of sound pressing heavily on his eardrums. Gradually, his ears adjusted, filling with the low, ever-present hum of indoor life. A mouse scurrying along behind the pile of wood in the corner. The groaning of the ancient wooden shutters as they rattled in the wind. They were the sounds of a time long past, familiar and foreign at the same time. When the young warlock heard his mother’s quiet breathing from the far end of the room, a fierce stab of longing overwhelmed him. Fooled by the familiarity of his surroundings, he moved without thinking. Something heavy clattered to the ground as he tripped and caught himself on a table. The resulting crash was loud enough to wake a castle. Cringing, Merlin stepped back, his heart in his throat as he cursed under his breath.

“Who’s there?” Hunith called out, her steady voice ringing out clearly through the dark. For a moment Merlin wondered at the fact that she didn’t sound scared, just cautious. She had always been braver than he’d given her credit for – he had no doubt she’d take him on if he didn’t make himself known. “Mum?” he forced out, almost breathless as his voice cracked with barely contained emotion. With shaking hands, he conjured a ball of light to illuminate his face. When she recognized him, his mother gasped sharply and clutched her hands to her chest. “ _Merlin-_ ” she breathed, disbelieving even as she was crossing the room in long strides. Next thing he knew, he was in her arms. His mother held him close, stroking his back and making soothing noises, the way she used to do when he was still a child. Merlin buried his face in her hair and breathed in her familiar scent. She smelled of home, clean and simple and sweet. The tears burned behind his eyes. He wouldn’t let them fall.

Eventually they broke apart. Releasing him, Hunith stepped back to take a look at her son. Merlin tried not to squirm, just averted his eyes as he felt her worried gaze on him. He knew it was no use - his mother was the only one who’d always been able to read him like a book, piercing through his defences and laying bare his soul. He’d never minded before, but this was different. This was his burden to bear, and his alone. He couldn’t put it on her, any of it, and he wouldn’t.

The silence lasted, heavy with words unsaid and tales untold, and still Hunith did not speak. Finally she sighed, looking up at him with eyes ancient with sadness. She didn’t ask, and for that, Merlin allowed himself a moment of relief. His mother seemed to understand he couldn’t talk – couldn’t speak the words that would make it final. Swallowing against the lump in his throat, he offered her a brittle smile. The older woman scrutinized him for an immeasurable moment before nodding once and taking his hand firmly in hers. “Did you come alone?” she asked, voice soft and concerned. Merlin shook his head as he replied, “A friend found me a couple of days ago. He travelled with me.” At her questioning look, he clarified, “He’s waiting outside.” When his mother went to welcome Percival in, Merlin watched her familiar figure with a mixture of comfort and apprehension. He knew she at least had a vague idea of what had happened, and he knew she wouldn’t rest until he told her.

_England_ _, 1300’s_

Merlin was sure this was the worst of it. It must be. All around him people were dying – fast. He half expected Arthur to reappear every time he lost another man, woman or child to the claws of this insatiable beast. Albion had fallen to its knees, crying out in need in a way it never had before. Merlin despaired as he felt life after life slip through his useless fingers. What could be worse than this?

It was impossible to keep track of all of them, these thousands of fragile lives so easily lost. The Black Death spread with a kind of ruthless efficiency. In its wake countless families were torn apart, villages wiped out and communities deserted. People faced the impossible choice between leaving their loved ones to die alone and afraid, or being the next one to fall ill. The dead were buried without ceremony, in the black of night and in nameless graves. Merlin no longer cared for his life over helping other people. He turned out to be immune, anyway. After all this time, it didn’t surprise or excite him. He just gritted his teeth and ploughed on, making his way to the next cross on the door.

Whatever he tried, Merlin couldn’t save any of them. He did what he could, and he hoped he made their end more bearable at least. He stayed with them until their very last breath, soothing their fears, holding their hand through fever dreams, telling them stories of knights and sorcery and princesses that were true only to him. If the people he met suspected his magic or saw the shadow of age behind his eyes, they were too sick to care. As their tired bodies finally gave out and their faces relaxed in death, the warlock watched with dry eyes and a heavy heart. It only took hours, sometimes days for their lives to be extinguished – never more than that. Time after time, he used the ancient words of the Old Religion to bless their passing. Then, feeling weary and older than the world itself, he moved on to the next house, the next one suffering.

Often he wondered helplessly what use any of it was if he couldn’t save anyone – if maybe this was some kind of punishment.

The disease raged on. The King didn’t come back.

_Ealdor, 500’s_

Percival and Merlin’s mother got along rather well. Hunith was pleasantly surprised by the knight’s attentiveness, and Percival basked in the love and care of the mother figure he had never known. Merlin himself felt comforted by his mother’s presence, though at the same time he was on edge. He knew he couldn’t stay here. The separation from Arthur tugged at his heart always, almost a physical presence at his side. He felt restless, unsure and isolated and aimlessly adrift.

When his mother eventually broached the subject, it was almost a relief to speak of it. And even though the words hurt and clawed at his heart coming out, Merlin talked and talked until his throat felt raw from it. The tears soon came and would not stop. Through it all Hunith sat with her son, holding him close and offering comfort where she knew none would come.

Merlin left Ealdor again after barely more than a week. He was alone this time. Two days earlier Percival had gone back to Camelot to tell Queen Guinevere of her husband’s passing and to take his place again as one of the remaining Knights of the Round Table. He had not asked Merlin to accompany him, most likely sensing that he wouldn’t be able to bear it yet – if ever. On the final day the knight and the warlock had embraced in silence, their shared grief clear and thick in the air. Merlin had stood outside and watched his friend leave until the forest obscured his broad form from view completely.

The pull of the lake was growing ever stronger, though, and so finally Merlin went as well. Though he was still pale and his heart still heavy, and though she worried for her mighty son as she ever had and ever would, Hunith had to let him go. Somehow, she knew she wouldn’t see him again.

 

_Kingdom of Great Britain, 1700’s_

There had been others, of course, at random intervals during the centuries, though perhaps neither as many nor as few as would have been expected. Some offered friendship like Vera had, bright and happy and uncomplicated, and Merlin remembered them with fondness. Others gave him something else entirely. There had been Ellyn, whose ginger hair had framed her lovely round face like a halo and whose silvery laugh had rung out like a bell; Jaime, the delicate farmer’s son who had always spoken dreamily of becoming a painter but had died in the mud as a soldier instead; Robin, the archer with a voice like rolling thunder and a temper as quick and relentless as lightning; Alexander, who had strayed near the lake by chance one day and kept coming back for months, and who had constellations of tiny freckles on the backs of his knees.

It hurt to think of them. Though Merlin had tried valiantly to ignore it, something had always felt off somehow, the perpetual sense of not-quite-right a gnawing pain in his gut. The sharp ache of what could have been flared up inconveniently from time to time, never quite losing its gnarled edges and jagged point. Every relationship felt like the faint echo of a lifetime that had been nipped in the bud, a wonderful possibility that had never come to be.

It was exhausting. He was _exhausted._ Everyone he had ever loved was long dead, and everyone he would ever love would die as well, the evidence of their tiny lives crumbling to dust in the blink of an eye. He couldn’t keep doing it. His battered heart felt bruised and bone-weary and worn-out, his tired age-old body brittle enough for a gust of wind to break it apart, but still he lived. On and on and on he lived, and he would keep on living, maybe for eternity or longer. Merlin would never understand why so many great minds strove after eternal life like it was some great blessing, instead of recognizing it for the terrible curse that it was. All faith in a loving and all-forgiving God had long since deserted him. For what God would allow anything like this to happen?

 

_Camelot, 500’s_

It had become habit almost alarmingly fast, though at the very beginning of it all he never would have believed it. Breaking his fast at the same table as Arthur, sharing his food and his company, sometimes exuberant and confident and sometimes quiet and subdued - it was normal now to be invited to it. Not every day, of course, but always when there was some time to be spared. Arthur seemed to enjoy his company, although he never said, and Merlin himself silently revelled in it, though even in the solitude of his own mind he instinctively shied away from examining his feelings on the matter too closely.

There was friendship between them now, honest and growing and strong, even with all the walls Merlin was forced to keep up. Though Arthur wasn’t vocal about the bond that had evolved between them and probably never would be even on pain of death, the implicit trust he had in his servant was abundantly clear for everyone to see. Every member of the Camelot Court saw how their beloved Prince seemed to prefer Merlin’s company over that of even his most trusted knights, how they laughed together over private jokes only the two of them would ever know, how the tacit understanding between them grew with every passing day. Some of the more perceptive palace inhabitants might even have recognised the meaning of the glances that kept missing their foothold, the fleeting touches that lingered just a fraction too long, the way Merlin’s face lit up when Arthur laughed and the way the Prince’s expression grew soft and fond whenever Merlin was being deliberately obnoxious – but they kept quiet, for what could they have said?

After the wedding things were different, of course. Merlin loved Gwen like a sister and he truly didn’t begrudge her and Arthur their privacy, though he couldn’t deny the sharp twitches of jealousy that sometimes sparked hot and bright along his spine. Because of his duties as the King’s personal servant Merlin had often caught the royal couple in one of their rare private moments, heads bent close together and voices soft and warm with affection. He had been forced to look away every time.

But while he could no longer share his meals with Arthur within the castle walls, the frequency of their outings together went up. After Uther passed and Arthur took on his duty as the new King of Camelot, he was expected to cut back on his time on patrol to make room for other responsibilities. He didn’t, though, carving out a path for himself even in this. If anything, he seemed to need the time away from the castle even more now, what with this new burden weighing down on his young shoulders and the looming threat of Morgana’s wrath always on his mind.

For his part, Merlin was glad to accompany him. Arthur always seemed lighter riding under the ageless canopy of leaves in the forest, happier somehow, more in his element and freer to speak his mind than even in his own courtroom. The warlock registered all of this with unerring eyes, but he was cautious to attribute meaning to his observations. After all, he couldn’t risk listening to the hopeful whispering of his foolish heart.

 

_United Kingdom, 1970’s_

In many ways, the past century had felt different than all that had preceded it. The world at large was changing and evolving and communicating at a far more rapid pace than ever before, horse carriages and carrier pigeons exchanged for telephones and typewriters and aeroplanes without a second thought, waves of protest and jubilation and conflict and _revolution_ reaching further and faster than anyone could have believed possible. It was astounding and humbling to witness.

Not only that, but Merlin himself was changing as well. Without any discernible reason or explanation, he seemed to be growing younger again, his body slowly struggling free from the constraints of old age and reverting back to the way it had once been. He grew stronger every day, his breath coming easier and his heart pounding to ever more valiant rhythms in his chest. The fog that had been clinging to his thoughts like cobwebs finally cleared, and Merlin could have cried with the relief of it.

It was a sunny afternoon in the early spring of 1977 when it happened. The trees were finally sprouting new leaves after the long harsh winter and the silver lake was as silent and still as it could ever be, barely any wind disturbing the glassy sheen of the surface. There was nothing particularly special about this day, objectively speaking, not really, but Merlin simply could not sit still. He had woken before the sun had even come up and been on edge ever since. Though over many long centuries he had learned the value of patience and quiet contemplation, today nothing could capture his attention for long. A strange thrill seemed to have settled under his skin, electrifying and restlessly alive and somehow entirely familiar. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

Physically he was almost back to his old self now – over the centuries he had almost forgotten how good it felt to move quickly and confidently and without any aching at all, and most days he took great pleasure in finally being able to stretch his legs and bend his back again. But today everything was different. Something _wild_ was stirring inside him, compelling him to be constantly in motion, constantly busy and outside in the pleasant cool of springtime. Every one of his senses seemed amplified, his attention fragmented at best, his focus easily scattered. It felt like something was crawling under his skin, something warm and invasive and larger than life. It seemed like it should scare him, but it didn’t. There wasn’t very much that scared him anymore.

In light of this, it might have been the ultimate irony that being honest-to-god _startled_ was what made him truly regain himself. Merlin was out in the untamed thicket of bushes that closely surrounded his ancient home, still feeling antsier than he could remember being in centuries and trying in vain to focus his restless energy on something productive, when suddenly he became aware of a presence nearby. That was unusual, to say the least. People didn’t normally venture this close – his house was out of the way of any villages, and what was more, Merlin had always suspected most people were instinctively put off by something about him, some invisible force warning them of danger. It had never really gone away, even when his magic had.

Merlin strained to hear anything out of the ordinary, but all stayed perfectly silent. Maybe he’d imagined it, then. He had just gone back to work when a branch snapped nearby, much louder and closer than he would have expected. Merlin jumped despite himself, his heartbeat suddenly very loud in his ears. Head whipping up, he searched for the source of the unexpected sound, finding none. The eddies of energy trapped under his skin seemed to pick up speed as if waiting for something, but nothing else happened for quite some time – no other sounds, nothing out of place. It took him much longer to dismiss it as mere fancy this time.

He was definitely on high alert now, but when the presence finally truly made itself known, it was still a surprise. The huffing sound came from rather close to the ground and from very, _very_ close by. Merlin’s breath caught in his throat. As he whirled around and instinctively flung out his arm to shield himself from any attack, a wave of raw, overwhelming sensation hit him squarely in the chest.

The sheer force of it made him stumble back a step, and Merlin braced himself for more. When no immediate attack seemed to be forthcoming, however, he slowly lowered his arm and opened his eyes. And blinked.

Time had stopped. Everything around him was completely, perfectly, unnaturally still. There was no wind, and the sudden booming silence crackled and pulsed with boundless energy. He could not believe it. After so many years, after so many _centuries_ , his magic had returned to him. He could feel it now, the heavy warmth of it settling back in his bones as if it had never left, the humming in his veins and the laughter in his heart. It was exquisite.

With the shock of regaining his magic at last, it took Merlin much longer than it should have to recognize what exactly was staring patiently back at him. When he finally did, though, he was almost equally as stunned as he had been before. For sitting in front of him was a dragon.

It was small, much smaller than any of its kind Merlin had seen before, its horned head barely reaching up to the warlock’s elbow. Its smooth scales gleamed a dull red in the dim sunlight filtering through the trees. Its whip-like tail ended in a point that looked sharp enough to cut through glass. Merlin took note of these things almost absentmindedly. Most of his attention was immediately drawn to the creature’s eyes – even frozen in time as they were now, they were intelligent and almost sad, an ancient wisdom in their starry depths. For an immeasurable moment, half-forgotten memories of Kilgharah and Aithusa made his heart seize inside his chest.

Time burst back into motion without any kind of conscious decision on his part, and at once the dragon moved. It sprang forward as if released from a spring, muscles uncoiling and pointed tongue flickering out between rows of sharp teeth. As it collided bodily with him, the wizard huffed out a breath and fell back in surprise. For its small size, the dragon was deceptively strong as well as heavy. When Merlin tried to get up, razor-sharp claws came out to dig painfully into his skin. Short, excited bursts of air brushed his face as the dragon refused to move. He was going to have to try something else.

After so long, the words of the Dragon Language felt foreign and gritty on his tongue, but their effect was instantaneous and complete. The dragon immediately backed off, its frantically swishing tail and quivering muscles the only remaining signs of its eagerness. Though clearly keen to get a message across, the creature did not speak. Perhaps it had never been taught, alone as it must have been. Or perhaps it had lost the ability, like Aithusa so long ago. But when Merlin gingerly and wonderingly reached out to stroke the creature’s smoothly muscled neck, it did not flinch away like the other dragon had in times long past. Instead, it leaned lightly into the touch and briefly closed its unsettling eyes to the world, huffing out a soft, almost catlike rumbling as if thoroughly enjoying the attention. Merlin smiled softly at the sight.

Before he could do much more than that, the dragon’s eyes snapped open again and up to his face. The quiet tranquillity of the moment was broken as the creature sprang back into motion. In an oddly human show of dignified respect, it bowed its head once to the warlock before moving around him with astounding speed. Merlin just watched as it took off in the direction of the lake, unfolding its small leathery wings as it gathered momentum. At the edge of the water it took to the air in one smooth motion, gliding up and away in a graceful arc. The warlock didn’t look away as the dragon slowly crossed the lake, its characteristic shape gradually getting smaller. Before it disappeared from sight completely, it circled the crumbling ruins of the grey tower twice in a motion that felt oddly symbolic. Merlin felt his throat constrict at the sight without quite knowing why.

In the days that came after, the memory of the small red dragon started feeling more and more like a strangely lifelike dream, but the return of his magic and the vaguely claw-shaped imprints on his stomach kept him from simply dismissing the whole thing as a figment of his desperate imagination. It was months later when he found a single red scale in the unkempt grass of his garden, glittering bright and clear as a ruby in the light of the early summer sun. The warlock smiled to himself as he held it in his hands, his thoughtful gaze automatically drawn to the distant tower where he saw the dragon last. Despite his best judgement, a bright spark of hope had been rekindled in his heart.

 

_Albion, 500’s_

Merlin had no idea how long it took him to get back to the lake. Time had lost all meaning to him. All he really knew was the way his breath came easier when he finally laid eyes on the silvery surface of the water, the way his heart felt just a little lighter. The way the soft whisper of the glassy-clear waves calmed his racing mind like nothing else had.

The warlock sat down heavily at the edge of the lake, staring out at the vast expanse of water before him with unseeing eyes. Eventually his wandering gaze was caught by the grey tower standing tall and proud in the distance, and he couldn’t help but feel grateful for the unmoving solidity of it – it would be here so much longer than he ever could, watch over his King and bear silent witness to this place for many centuries to come. It would fade, in the end, like everything else did, but not yet.

For a long time Merlin was silent, lost in thought. Then he spoke.

“Hello, Arthur,” he said, swallowing heavily and clearing his hoarse voice, “It’s me - it’s Merlin. I came back, just like I promised I would.” He wiped at his eyes with one hand, letting out a soft laugh as he continued, “I may have been a worthless servant, but I keep my promises. Even to clotpoles like you.” His voice broke, and he let out a shuddering sigh. It was some time before he spoke again. “I’m so sorry about what happened, Arthur. You can’t imagine – I wanted–” It was hard to find the right words, but Merlin couldn’t give up, “I wanted to tell you so much, you wouldn’t even _believe_ how much. I just – couldn’t. I couldn’t do that to you. I know how you felt about magic, how your father felt… I know about everything that happened to you because of it. I didn’t want to put you in a difficult position, I –” He broke down again, the tears welling up faster now than he could wipe them away, “I realize now that that might not have been my call to make – I didn’t before. But it was for you, Arthur, everything I did, it was all for you. I swear it. You have to believe that.”

There was no response, of course. The lake kept still and silent as it ever would. Merlin swallowed thickly as his vision blurred with fresh tears. It seemed he was going to have to get used to silence.

_United Kingdom, 2015_

He couldn’t go on any longer. He had been so sure – so sure that the return of his magic and his youth was to be the turning point, the last push, so sure that the red dragon was a good omen. But nothing had changed, really. The Albion of old had long since come and gone. Kilgharah’s parting words used to fill him with purpose and light, but those feelings had passed centuries ago. The warlock was still here, still alive, the only remaining proof of an era long lost, and he was still alone.

Over the past century Merlin hadn’t travelled far from the lake, always staying close, hoping against hope. Every time he looked out the small window of his cottage, his heart briefly stuttered in his chest, almost daring to expect a miracle – and every time he was disappointed. It was excruciating.

A new millennium had come, a new century, a new year, and summer had finally arrived in all her majesty. Everywhere you looked was teeming with life, colourful and exuberant and almost cocky with youth and promise. To the timeless observer, the extravagant generosity of it was overwhelming – gnarled old trees crowning themselves in the brilliant green of new leaves year after year, birds singing their jubilant songs to the high heavens for everyone to hear, grass growing lush and soft and fresh wherever it could reach. Merlin had seen it all before, hundreds upon hundreds of times, but it still took his breath away – the incredible bravery of it, of living with such utter conviction and trust, such dedication. To his ancient, battered soul, it felt unimaginably foreign.

He had woken early that morning, just like he used to do when the weariness in his old bones still plagued him. The sun was only just peeking over the horizon, preening itself to rise for its daily grand adventure. Merlin was making himself a strong cup of coffee as was his habit, thoughts sluggish and eyes wandering aimlessly as his hands worked on automatic.

As it was, it took him a moment to catch on to what he was seeing.

Merlin was outside within seconds, his young legs carrying him faster than they ever had before. He skidded to a stop at the very edge of the lake, his breathing harsh and his heart in his throat as he stared. Though he didn’t quite understand what exactly he was witnessing, he knew it was important. Once again, hope swelled bright and sharp and treacherous inside his chest.

A strange shimmering seemed to have come over the lake surface, a fluid glossy silver suffusing the early morning air and mingling with the clear water. The waking chorus of birds had gone quiet as if in anticipation. Merlin had to force himself not to hold his breath as he looked out over the lake.

For a long time nothing happened. The hushed silence stretched on and on as the tension built.

There was a break in the surface of the water, the swirling silvery strands of otherworldly magic moulding around it like luxurious fabric. Merlin’s heart stopped, then restarted in double time as a golden-blond head slowly rose up from the depths of the lake. It was followed by a very familiar set of broad shoulders and a wide chest, the red cloak billowing out behind the man as he moved to stand, the metallic sounds of his chainmail audible even from this distance. A beautifully engraved sword was strapped securely to his side.

“ _ARTHUR!_ ” Merlin’s voice was hoarse as his ragged shout rang out over the lake. The cloaked figure looked up at the sound of his name, instantly alert and on edge, hand coming to rest on the hilt of his sword and eyes carefully scanning the water’s edge. When finally his gaze landed on Merlin, his smile was easily radiant enough to light up the deepest caverns of the world. The warlock felt his entire body respond in kind, a brilliant joy suffusing him with warmth and chasing out the darkness. He didn’t even realize he was running until he was already up to his thighs in the icy cold water of the lake, clear drops of liquid silver spattering the soft fabric of his tunic.

Reaching each other seemed to take forever, the heavy weight of the water slowing down their steps to a frustratingly low pace. When finally they met, both of them nearly up to their waist in the water, Arthur tentatively reached out a hand as if to ascertain whether the other man was real, the clear blue of his eyes glorious in the pearly light of dawn. Merlin let out a broken sob at the uncertainty of the gesture, stepping forward to drag Arthur into a rough embrace instead.

His King let out a soft huff of surprise at the gesture but returned the hug without hesitation, clinging on to Merlin as if his very life depended on it. Merlin closed his eyes as he breathed Arthur in, the utter familiarity of his scent overwhelming his senses and leaving him breathless and reeling. The tears that had been threatening to spill over from the moment he had first laid eyes on Arthur finally fell. He did not try to stop them.

After an immeasurable time they drew apart, though they instinctively stayed within the circle of each other’s arms. “ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur breathed out, a distinctly forlorn look in his eyes as he drank him in almost hungrily, “I don’t – I–” His voice died away as his hand came up to brush Merlin’s cheek, his fingers rough and surprisingly warm on his skin where they slowly traced the tracks his tears had made. Merlin couldn’t suppress a shiver at the gentle touch, and from Arthur’s soft intake of breath, he hadn’t missed it either. There was nothing else for it, then. As the sorcerer slowly looked up and met the gaze of his Once and Future King, he was unprepared for the open affection and naked vulnerability he encountered. His heart flipped awkwardly in his chest. Their eyes locked, blue on blue.

For the space of a heartbeat, all was perfectly silent. The world around them waited with bated breath.

Their lips finally, finally met.

Arthur was the first to move, impatiently dragging Merlin closer by the shoulder as the full force of nature’s jubilation burst out around them. The warlock fell into the embrace gladly and willingly, both of his hands coming up to trace the solid lines of Arthur’s broad back. One hand ended up tangling in the short golden hair at the nape of his neck, and his King let out a low unrestrained moan at the sensation. Merlin smiled softly against the other’s lips. He could feel the final piece of himself slot back into place. This was it.

“I’ve waited–” Merlin managed to say between fierce kisses, voice low and rough, “– _so_ long,” he whimpered brokenly as Arthur slowly and deliberately swiped across his lower lip, feeling himself go dangerously weak in the knees, “–so very _long_ , Arthur, I–” His magic was going absolutely haywire under his skin, brimming just below the surface, trilling hot and bright and alive at every touch, “I thought–” Arthur was holding him very close now, encasing him securely in his arms, breathing him in and pressing soft kisses everywhere he could reach, from the bridge of his nose to the long pale line of his throat, and Merlin never ever wanted him to stop, “I thought you’d never come back and I was so alone–” His voice broke on a sob.

Arthur leaned back infinitesimally, effectively breaking the kiss as the sapphire blue of his eyes clouded over by confusion.

“…How long have I been gone?”

It was a sobering question, and Merlin honestly did not know whether he wanted to laugh hysterically or burst out crying. _He didn’t know._ Arthur had no idea what had happened, and how could he? Time was a strange concept, and he was fairly certain that the living were the only ones that even tried to measure it.

Merlin didn’t answer right away. Instead, he grabbed hold of Arthur’s hand and pointed to the sky. Arthur slowly looked up. As he found what Merlin meant, his expression transformed from curiosity to naked wonder. His incredulous intake of breath simultaneously excited Merlin and broke his heart. “They call them airplanes,” he said softly, noting how Arthur kept his eyes trained on the tiny silver speck moving swift and sure across the vast expanse of the sky, “people use them to travel great distances, and to cross mountain ranges and oceans–”

“–there’s _people_ in there?” Arthur interrupted him in a hoarse voice, eyes impossibly wide and almost dazed. He finally looked away from the plane, evidently forcing himself to focus on Merlin instead, his breath coming fast and shallow. The warlock steadily looked back at him, a reassuring warmth in his eyes, and if he noticed the faint trembling of the other’s hands, he didn’t mention it. For a while they stood in silence, the cold water of the lake flowing around them, always in motion. That was comforting, in a way. Eventually Arthur collected himself enough to speak, voice only a little strained, “It appears a lot happened in my absence.”

Merlin smiled and nodded as he dragged Arthur back into an embrace. He had a lot of explaining to do, and it would be far from easy. But, he thought as his lips found Arthur’s again in a soft kiss – all that could wait for now. There would be time enough for it later.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> According to some literature (mainly Geoffrey of Monmouth's History of the Kings of Britain), the red dragon is a prophecy of the coming of King Arthur, which is why I thought it would be fitting to include it. Plus another reason is that I love dragons. 
> 
> Also who caught the tiiiiny Robin the Hood reference/cameo that I couldn't resist slipping in there? It has no actual relevance to the story in any way but yeaaah
> 
> I started writing this story right after the series finale of Merlin and I FINALLY finished it. I can't actually believe it.  
> Thank you so much for reading, and I really hope you enjoyed!
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://www.dustbottle.tumblr.com), come and say hi!


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